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Jolyne is 7 years old when her dad takes her to the St. Lucie County Aquarium. This is the second time that she can remember going, and the eighth in her mother’s better memory. They grab hotdogs and ice cream outside, and he buys her a plush shark that he carries for her under his arm while she runs around from wall to wall, plastering her hands and face to the glass windows. He slowly catches up behind her and recites facts about lionfish and corals cultivated there that aren’t written on wall plaques. It’s just the two of them.
It’s Jolyne’s last good memory of him. Languid and soft-spoken, careful and protective, holding her hand when it gets crowded, his big and rough like sandpaper or shark-skin against her soft and sweaty ones. He reminds her of a whale shark. The same gentle giant as was her favorite animal at the time, and the same as the plush he holds.
The plush will be lost somewhere in their attic, will be saved by her mother after she finds it torn to shreds in a 12-year-old Jolyne’s room. For now, though, it remains safe in its shiny, new, plastic packaging.
After running around for an hour and poking at creatures in the touch pool under her dad’s watchful eye, her father sits her down on a bench in front of a wide wall of tropical fish. The window casts blue light over everything, and Jolyne will remember for years to come how it turns the white of his hat and coat into the same color as the ocean. Like he’s become one with the waves, will drift away and be lost in them forever.
“Your mom and I aren’t going to be seeing each other anymore,” her father says.
Maybe there was a preamble. Maybe he slowly worked his way up to the conversation by asking about what animals she liked seeing the most, if she wanted to get another snack, or if her feet were hurting in her fresh, yet to be broken-in Sketchers. Or maybe it was just that sudden and jarring. Jotaro Kujo is a man of few words.
Jolyne says something in response. Her father responds back. They speak for a few moments and get interrupted by the loudspeakers crackling to life to announce a public feeding. That morning she brought crumbs of her toast in her pockets because she wanted to toss them into the pools and have the fish nibble at them during this show, not understanding that it’s only the aquarium staff that feed the animals. Instead of tugging at her dad’s hands to get him to hurry up so they don’t miss the show, Jolyne is crying. She’s on her hands and knees on the grimy, damp aquarium floor and throwing a tantrum, gasping for air, little lungs burning, screaming until her questions become gibberish. Her father is a shadow looming over her.
She feels the vague sensation of being picked up and carried by arms that feel like they could hold up the world. Everything turns sideways then right-side up. There’s a rubbing sensation at her back. She’s getting snot all over her dad’s shoulder and in her mouth.
She wakes up in the backseat of their car, whale shark plush in her lap, to her dad unbuckling her from the booster seat. Her eyes droop. Her head lulls.
She wakes up again in her bed, maybe, or while her dad is unstrapping the velcro of her shoes. Or maybe when her mom walks in and…
Does her mom give Jolyne a popsicle now or later, when she comes down for dinner? She thinks she eats it while watching a cartoon on the television, but her parents never let her watch television before bed. But they don’t let her have dessert before dinner, either.
The memories will be fuzzy in Jolyne’s mind, will turn bitter and angry over the years, will be kerosene to the lighter-sparks that are her temper and anger as a teenager. They’ll be what come back to haunt her when she’s nineteen and in a prison and her father comes to visit her for the first time in what feels like millennia, and then sacrifices himself to protect her. But for now, the aquarium lights, the ice cream dripping over her sketchers, the hand in her hand remain as they are. Not memories. Just soft things. Just her father and her.